Give It Up For The Old Guys: U.S. Open Edition
A few days, maybe a week, before the start of this year's U.S. Open, I was already mad at America's premiere tennis competition. Some shortsighted dingbats thought Stan Wawrinka, on his retirement tour of the majors, didn't deserve a wild card spot for this year's tournament. What are we doing, America? Honestly.
This all was subsequently rendered moot when a withdrawal resulted (way too late, in my opinion) in the wild card being extended. He put up a hell of a fight against Italy's Matteo Berrenttini, but was ultimately handed a first-round defeat that officially ends his majors career in professional tennis.
I was distraught by the notion New York wouldn't send him off with the same kind of fanfare that Roland Garros had rolled out for him. It would have been criminal to deprive fans of this moment.
Right before the tournament started, I told Courtney that I thought I was pulling for Novak to win the whole thing. This, as a diehard Roger Federer fan, feels a bit weird to say. Some of Novak's greatest moments were thwarting my guy, and his ascension to GOAT status made me sad to watch him so quickly erase my hero's records.
But I came of age (and to the sport of tennis) because of the Big Three. I cried like a baby when Roger retired and again when Rafa retired. I miss them. Still think it as I watch tournaments years after they last competed. And so I've seen my staunch "Never Novak" stance soften a bit in their absence, as he's the my (and the game's) last connection to them. He's one of them. Perhaps (statistically, at least) the best of them. I'm blown away by what Novak can still do, so it was actually a small step from just admiration to outright rooting.
And then he pulled a first, even for him: He lost in the first round.
Watching him push himself, flail and then rally, throw up in the towel bins, dab himself with ice packs, scrunch up his face in obvious pain, for it all to just end was jarring. To see him smile and give a graceful hug and loving tap at the net was restorative. To see him stop, after all of that, to sign autographs made me feel bad for not championing his every effort since Roger and Rafa retired.
Matthew Futterman
On his 40th birthday, Gael Monfils defied Father Time. You could not ask for a better performance nor a better first-round matchup to have attended if you were in NYC and a tennis fan.
After dropping the first set in concerning fashion, the fabulous Frenchman came storming back with his usual style and panache, delivering some truly unbelievable shots for any player, much less one who was vying to be the third-oldest player to win a match at the U.S. Open.
The speed with which he secured the second set was promising. The third set brilliance gave us hope that it was really happening. And by the fourth, it was all but a done deal, with the crowd well aware of what they were witnessing and, at times, seeming to will it into existence.
To watch him scream in celebration with such emotion that you felt your scalp tingle even at home was life-giving. But when, during his post-match on-court interview, the crowd interrupted the questions and answers to sing "Happy Birthday" to him, it felt like it was the very best a person could hope for out of a sporting event.
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